Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first time it happened, Abeke was awake. Well, she supposed that “awake” wasn’t quite the right word. She was pulled from the very edges of sleep by a quiet whisper near the small fire in the center of their campsite. 

“Conor.”

Abeke didn’t open her eyes, but she felt herself being pulled away from the invitation of slumber and back into her ratty bed roll. She tried not to notice the way the hard ground beneath her pressed uncomfortably into the lines of her body, focusing instead on the forest around her.

“Shut up, Worthy.” Conor’s voice was tired and dull. She could practically see the slump of his shoulders in her mind’s eye as their scarlet-clad ally emerged from the treeline. With her head pressed so close to the ground, Abeke could hear the soft pad of Worthy’s footfalls as he approached the center of the camp. 

“Please,” the other Euran boy whispered, “I just want to talk to you.”

Abeke’s body instinctively tensed at the tightness in her best friend’s response. “So you wait until I’m on watch, alone , before ambushing me?"

“Well, I can’t exactly talk freely with everyone listening in, can I?” 

Conor snorted. “And it never crossed your mind that that might be the point?”  

“Conor-” the Redcloak began, his voice slipping into a child-like whine.

Conor cut him off, abrupt and short. “Leave me alone, Worthy.” 

It was strange, she thought, to hear her gentle-minded friend with so much anger simmering just under the surface of his words. Even after witnessing the way he’d changed after the Wyrm, she didn’t know if she’d ever be able to equate the loving boy she had known with the rage and self-loathing she knew he was now burdened with. 

And to hear all of his vitriol and animosity directed towards Worthy? Not for the first time, she wondered just what had transpired between the two young men, back when Worthy was still Devin Trunswick and Conor was just a simple shepherd boy. 

Worthy sighed, dejected, but said no more before turning and disappearing back into the shadows. 

Conor also let out a sigh, but his contained nothing but bone-deep exhaustion. Abeke listened as he drew his thick cloak tighter around his shoulders, settling in for his shift on watch. 

Chapter Text

The second time it happened, the group was scaling a steep ravine. 

Meilin was in the lead, listening to one of Rollan’s (very exaggerated) stories, a soft smile reserved only for him gracing her features. Abeke was trailing just behind them, snorting every now and then at their companion’s horrendous attempts at mimicking accents. 

A sudden shout from behind made them all spin, hands automatically reaching for weapons before they’d even processed what was happening. Abeke had thought that Conor was right behind her, bringing up the rear, but he must have fallen behind more than she’d realized.

Further down the trail they had just traversed, Conor had Worthy pinned with his back to a tree. The blond boy's battle axe was leveled dangerously close to the Redcloak’s neck as he spat, once more, “Do not touch me!”

“Shit,” Rollan breathed, rushing back down the path, with Abeke and Meilin hot on his heels. 

“ Please ,” Worthy pleaded, his hands raised in surrender, slit eyes wide, “I just wanted to talk to you!”

The tip of Conor’s axe brushed the pale skin of Worthy’s throat as he growled, “And I want nothing from you.”

“Okay, mate,” Rollan said, his hands raised in a placating gesture as he edged closer to their two friends. “How about we put the axe down and just—take a breather?” Abeke winced internally, cringing at how much that last part sounded like a plea.

Conor hesitated, the blue of his eyes never wavering from Worthy’s green. For a moment, all five of them held their breaths, waiting to see what would happen next.  

Abeke exhaled harshly as, with a curled lip and a tightly clenched jaw, Conor shoved himself away from the other boy. He stepped back, shaking his head and taking a deep breath. 

“Good,” Rollan said, eyes flicking back and forth between the two teenagers. “Now, does someone want to tell us what’s going on?”

Conor ran one hand through his hair, the other still gripping his axe handle with white knuckles. “Keep him the hell away from me,” he spat. As he spun on his heel and began stalking up the trail, Abeke was the only one that heard his quiet mutter: 

“Or next time, I might actually slit his throat.”

Worthy’s face twisted and he made to follow the blond boy, but Rollan smoothly slid in front of him, blocking his way. “I think you’ve done enough for today, mate,” he said quietly. 

“I just went to pat his shoulder,” Worthy bemoaned, letting his head thunk into the bark of the tree he’d so recently been pinned to. 

Abeke quickly shifted her gaze from Worthy, his shoulders now slumped and head held low, to Conor’s rapidly disappearing figure as he marched resolutely up the ravine.

Meilin caught her gaze. “Go,” she said. “Rollan and I will keep an eye on things here.” Abeke nodded at her friend swiftly, her jaw set, as she turned and began following in Conor’s tracks. 

She finally caught up with him at the top of the trail. Flanked by two imposing slabs of rock that bordered either side of the dusty path, Conor was pacing restlessly. His axe was sheathed now—a small victory, Abeke thought. However, what troubled her far more was the blood smeared across the stone, and the twin streaks still trickling from the knuckles of his right hand.

“Conor?” Her voice was soft, but the worry was unmistakable as she watched her best friend's blood mingle with the dust of the well-trodden path. It had been a long time since she had seen him snap like this, and she realized with a pang that it would probably always be unsettling to witness.

Conor only glanced at her briefly before continuing to pace. “Not now, Abeke,” he mumbled.

“Please,” she pressed, “what’s going on?” Her real question went unasked: ‘ What aren’t you telling me?’

His jaw remained clenched, his hands balled into tight fists at his sides. “Not now, Abeke,” he repeated, his voice tightening with each word. He was on the brink of breaking.

The last thing she wanted was to cause another breakdown. Abeke had learned long ago which battles to see through and which to let burn out. With one more worried glance at the ruby red droplets dripping from his broken skin, she backed down. Pushing him now would only cause more damage.

"Alright," she murmured, a hint of tired melancholy in her tone. "Alright, Conor."

She tried to comfort herself with the thought that he would come to her, when he was ready… But how much longer would it be until that happened? And, more pressingly, how much longer could their little group go on like this?

Chapter Text

The third time it happened was the boiling point. 

The small fire in the center of their campsite crackled and sparked. An old pot Rollan had swiped a few towns back rested atop the makeshift tripod Abeke had thrown together. Chunks of the rabbit she and Uraza had brought back to camp now floated in the confines of the old metal, bobbing here and there as the water began bubbling. 

Abeke sat back, ankles crossed and pointed toward the fire as she rested her head against her spirit animal’s side. She had always found cleaning and polishing her weapons to be a soothing task. Tonight was no different and she found herself getting lost in the monotony of picking strands of rabbit fur out of the serrations of her hunting knife. 

Meilin sat directly across from her, carefully dicing and adding the cloves of wild garlic Jhi had sniffed out. For once, they were actually having a semi-stew! Normally, all of their meals were either roasted or boiled. Abeke would be lying if she said she wasn’t grateful for the brief reprieve. Rollan and Conor had even sacrificed some of their dwindling spice supply for the occasion, just to make it a bit more bearable. 

Conor, who was resting with his back against a fallen tree to her right, began humming. It had come as a shock to the rest of them the first time he’d done it. Well, it had come as a surprise to most of them- when she’d brought it up to him later, Worthy had told her that the young shepherd had always had a bit of a penchant for music while he was working. 

What was even more surprising, however, was just how good Conor was at it! Rollan had teased him for it, jokingly asking if he had any other hidden talents he’d been hiding from them. Even Meilin gave a brief, “Well done,” in that evaluative tone she sometimes used when reassessing something. He had explained that there hadn’t been much to do while guarding his family’s sheep, so he and his brothers had sung old Euran folk songs and lullabies to each other to pass the time. 

She had noticed very early on that Conor made no move to sing, hum, or even drum his fingers if Worthy could hear… She didn't bring it up.

Abeke set her knife aside and closed her eyes, letting herself relax for a moment. Uraza’s steady purr vibrated through her body from where her neck rested against the giant cat’s flank, creating an almost perfect harmony to the drifting, lilting melody of Conor’s voice. 

There was a bittersweet and almost nostalgic quality to the way Conor sang. Though their cultures differed, the way his voice leapt from note to note—low, then suddenly high and back down again—wove a web of subtle reverence and a wild kind of elegance. It reminded her of the chants she and Soama had joined in back home in Okaihee.

These brief snippets of peace were the ones that Abeke cherished the most. During times like these, she could momentarily forget they were being hunted. She could set aside thoughts of the wars, of Shane, of everything, and pretend she was simply on a camping trip with some of her best friends. They were out here, beneath a brilliant canopy of stars, just for the fun and excitement of it—because it was what they all wanted to be doing.

The bushes on the edge of their campsite rustled slightly. Conor fell silent, his shoulders growing tense as he reached for the handle of his battle axe. Abeke’s knife was already clutched in her hand, and Rollan and Meilin had also snatched up their weapons. Uraza’s ears perked up and her glowing violet eyes were trained on the edge of the meadow. 

“It’s just me,” Worthy said as he emerged from the shadowy treeline, yanking on the red fabric settled across his shoulders to keep it out of the tangle of bushes. Rollan, Meilin, Abeke, and Uraza all released the collective breath they’d been holding. 

Rollan slumped back against the log he’d been lounging against. “You just about scared the living hell out of us,” he exclaimed, exasperated. 

Worthy shrugged, sheepish, and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Sorry,” he replied, chastised. “I didn’t mean to.”

“We ought to get you a bell,” Abeke joked, ignoring the way her heart was still pounding as she once again relinquished her hold on her knife. “There’s only room enough for one ultra-stealthy cat in this group.”

Worthy snorted, rolling his feline-esque eyes at her as he took a seat at the fire’s edge, between her and Rollan. Changing the subject, he asked, “What’s for dinner?”

As Meilin answered the Redcloak’s question, Abeke’s eyes flicked over to Conor. He hadn’t relaxed like the other three had, and his hand was still hovering over his axe. She was sure that if Briggan were not still emblazoned as a tattoo across the pale skin of his summoner's forearm, his hackles would be raised, cobalt blue eyes fixed on the Redcloak with a steady intensity that would send uneasy shivers down anyone’s spine. 

“Hey, Conor,” Worthy began hesitantly. ‘Oh no’, Abeke thought. Historically, interactions between the two boys did not tend to end well. He cleared his throat, making tentative eye contact with the other Euran teen. “Was that ‘Sleepsong’ that you were humming just now?”

Conor met his gaze coldly from his place across the fire. “Yeah,” he responded, voice ridgid, “it was.” He didn’t say anything else and Worthy was the first to look away. Conor dropped his eyes to stare mutinously into the flickering flames of their fire, his jaw clenched.

Rollan gave a quiet cough, attempting to cut the tension. His eyes subtly bounced back and forth between the other boys, studying both the tightness in Conor’s shoulders and how Worthy was fiddling with the ends of cloak nervously. “How do you know it, Worthy?” He asked conversationally. 

“Oh,” the Redcloak said, clearly not having been prepared to be put on the spot. “I-It’s a traditional Euran lullaby,” he explained, stuttering only slightly. “Our nursemaid used to sing it to me and Dawson, my little brother, when we were sick or couldn't sleep for whatever reason.”

Rollan nodded along with his explanation. “That’s cool,” he said. “Did she know many old songs like that?”

Abeke was aware of Rollan’s talent for defusing tense moments with his proclivity for words. She was thankful for him stepping in now, as Worthy answering his questions allowed her an opportunity to check on Conor.

Keeping her actions casual, Abeke flicked a small pebble that had been resting by her hip in Conor’s direction. It rolled to a stop next to his leg and he blinked at it for a moment before lifting his gaze to stare at her. 

Abeke caught his eye, raising a single brow. ‘You okay?’ Conor bit at his lip, but still gave a barely perceptible nod. 

Abeke nodded back, taking a deep breath and pretending to shake out her hands. She then looked pointedly back at him. ‘Take a breath. Relax.’ He mimicked her movements, following her silent instructions.

He absently rubbed at the scar on his forehead for a moment, rolled his shoulders, then looked up at her again. Another brow raised, another unspoken question asked: ‘Better?’ He nodded, took another deep breath, and managed a tight smile. 

It was progress. 

“Well,” Meilin’s sharp voice cut through the air. “If you are all quite finished, dinner is ready.”

Dishing out the stew took less time than Abeke thought. It seemed everyone was eager for a meal that wasn't boiled or spitted.

Rollan was the first to dig in. “Oh, Erdas,” he groaned, eyes rolled back in his head. “This is easily one of the best things I've ever put in my body.”

Abeke lifted a spoonful to her mouth, trying very hard to keep anyone from noticing the stupid grin she was internally beating to death with a stick. Meilin’s aghast side eye was almost enough to break her completely, but she managed to save her composure at the last second.

Worthy was looking anywhere but at Rollan, his gaze darting around the clearing as the Amayan boy let out another sound of ecstasy. Conor pressed his lips together and turned away, his eyes squeezed shut as he struggled to stifle his amusement at the absurdity of the situation. Even Uraza let out a soft huff, a gentle grunt of fond exasperation at the immaturity of the young humans.

They might be the heroes of the world, but they were also still teenagers. 

Abeke had to admit, though, Rollan wasn't really exaggerating. The added seasonings of the stew burst across her tongue, making her salivate. Maybe it was the long deprivation of any real flavor from their food, but she thought it truly was one of the best meals she'd ever had. 

“It is really good,” she admitted. 

“See?” Rollan exclaimed. “That’s what I was saying!”

Worthy snorted. “It didn't sound like you were saying anything there for a moment,” he snickered. “Though,” he added as an afterthought, ignoring the prominent middle finger Rollan shot back at him, “it does remind me of something… I just can't put my finger on what it might be.”

“Well,” Meilin cut in, “I'm glad the work paid off. I never was one for an excessive amount of additives, but I can admit that this is truly delectable.”

Rollan groaned in faux annoyance. “You and your big, princess-y words,” he huffed with a roll of his eyes. “Just say it's a damn good soup!”

Meilin looked scandalized. “That is what I said! And,” she added, nose in the air, “this is a stew, not a soup.”

“Oh, what-ever, Your Royal Highness,” he said with a grandiose wave of his hand. “Shall I fetch you a crown, too? Mayhaps a footstool for your dainty, royal ankles?” 

Abeke couldn't help the snort that escaped her as Meilin scowled at Rollan, her eyes narrowed and mouth comically pinched as she folded her arms. “I’ll show you ‘dainty, ’” she hissed indignantly. 

Rollan let out a loud laugh, which only set Abeke off even more. Worthy snickered, trying to hide his amusement behind a slightly cupped hand. Even Conor was chuckling- nothing like his rare, deep belly laugh, but it was still better than the stone-cold tension he'd just been sporting. 

After a few more moments of infectious laughter, the group began to calm down. Meilin gave a long-suffering sigh, rolled her eyes, and went back to sipping her broth demurely. Rollan kept chuckling, but also drained the last dregs of his bowl. Conor and Abeke both set their utensils down at the same time, glancing up and giving each other a small grin. Uraza let out a low sigh and gracefully allowed her lean, muscled body to sink back to the earth, her spotted tail flicking ever so slightly.

For a brief, hopeful minute, Abeke imagined that their little band might navigate the night without a hitch. Predictably, the second that thought crossed her mind was the moment that everything blew up. 

Worthy snapped his fingers, letting out a delighted, “Aha!” 

Abeke looked over at him, bemused. “What's got you so excited?” 

“I just figured out why it’s so familiar!” Worthy exclaimed. “It tastes like the stew the cooks used to make! It was Dawson’s favorite, so they always prepared it for big events—birthdays, milestones, that kind of thing.” He looked across the rising embers at Conor, a wide smile spreading at the thought of sharing this nostalgic flavor with the other Trunswick boy. “Doesn’t this bring back memories, Conor?”

Her heart plummeted into the pit of her stomach as Rollan’s jaw dropped and Meilin’s eyes widened in shock. All Abeke could manage was mouthing a silent, vehement curse before the pot finally blew its lid.

“I wouldn’t know,” Conor retorted bitterly. “But it sure as hell drags up some old memories.”

Worthy’s brow furrowed deeply, eyes narrowing in bewilderment. “Wait, what do you mean by that?” he asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

Abeke opened her mouth to speak, hoping to defuse the situation before it escalated again. Just then, sharp teeth tugged at the hem of her sleeve, and she glanced down to see Uraza. The leopard's glittering purple eyes met hers with a steady gaze. 'Don't,' they seemed to say. 'This needs to happen.' 

Abeke wanted to protest, but a part of her knew that her spirit animal was right. She steeled herself, taking a deep breath before sitting back, her hands clenched tightly in her lap. Both Rollan and Meilin, who had looked to her for guidance, raised an eyebrow, but they followed her lead and stayed put, making no move to intervene. They seemed to understand the same thing Uraza did: This confrontation had been brewing for a long time. There was no stopping it now. 

“I wouldn’t know what that stew tasted like,” Conor bit out. “Us lowly servants,” his voice dripped with bitterness, “were not permitted to eat anything prepared for the Earl or his family- your family.” 

Worthy's green eyes were wide with shock. “What?” he exclaimed. “What about everything left over? What happened to it?”

Conor's jaw tightened, and he spat, “We threw it out.”

“You what?” Worthy squawked, incredulous. “On whose orders?”

“Whose do you think?” Conor replied, his tone dripping with venom.

“But—” Worthy shook his head in disbelief. “Surely not all of it!”

Conor met his eyes with a vitriolic glare. Slowly, enunciating every word with deliberate precision, he said, “Every. Last. Drop.” 

“W-Why would you do that?” 

Conor laughed without a trace of amusement. “You think we wanted to? Do you have any idea how long our families could have survived on a single night’s waste?” He shook his head, hands reflexively curling into fists. “We didn’t have a choice, Devin,” he spat the other’s discarded name like it was a curse. “We were given orders, and we followed them. It didn’t matter how we felt about them.” He shook his head derisively. 

Worthy gaped at him for a few moments. “I- I always thought-” He floundered, and Conor took advantage of his speechlessness. 

“Oh, you thought? The way I remember it, you didn’t think. That was the problem! You never spared a single thought for any of us because we weren’t people to you. We didn’t need food or rest. We didn’t have families or lives outside of serving your every whim because we ceased to exist if it wasn’t convenient for you.”

Conor’s chest was heaving as he met Worthy’s wide, dismayed eyes. “I-” He began, then licked his lips and continued. “I never thought it was that bad.” Conor’s eyes widened with frustrated disbelief, and he threw his hands into the air in disgust. 

“I mean,” the Redcloak hurried on, seemingly understanding that he’d said something wrong, “I knew it was bad, but- Look, you still had those things, even if I didn’t see it. You must have had at least some food, a place to sleep, a roof over your head…” With every word, Worthy seemed to shrink into himself under Conor’s worsening glare. “I guess I just didn’t see why you would need anything else,” he finished weakly. 

Abeke noticed that Worthy had used the past tense in that sentence. Even though he hadn't seen it at first, he did now! Conor, on the other hand, seemed not to have noticed. Or perhaps he just simply didn't care?

The blond boy leaned forward, the flickering flames of the campfire casting a wild glow on his face. His blue eyes caught the orange light, transforming them into piercing shards of molten metal. “That,” he growled, his voice low and charged with anger, “is the bare fucking minimum, Devin!” The weight of his words hung in the air like smoke, thick and suffocating. 

Worthy looked as though he had forgotten how to breathe. His chest stuttered, jaw hanging open as he stared back at Conor in dismay. 

Conor kept going, his shaking hands clenched into fists. “You didn’t see us, you didn’t care about us, you didn’t notice us at all! Unless, of course,” he added sardonically, “we broke one of your oh-so-important rules.

“Do you really think none of us tried to smuggle scraps back home? Because we did. Those of us that managed it kept our families from starving for one more day. Those of us that didn’t, well-” He broke off, lips curling in a horrible, twisted grin. “Your father made certain that we never forgot them.” 

Worthy inhaled sharply, one shaking hand moving to cover his mouth as if he instinctively knew what was coming next. Conor only smirked coldly at his distress. “You remember too, don’t you?” He asked. Without waiting for a response, he blazed on. “I was nine when a serving girl was caught stealing potato skins from the waste basket. She was going to bring them home and boil them for her little sister and mother because they hadn’t been able to afford anything else since her father died.

“Do you recall,” Conor asked as he sat back, his tone carefully balanced to feign calm, “who it was that reported her?” 

Worthy’s face paled, a sheen of sweat appearing at his temples as Conor snapped his fingers, the sound sharp and jarring in the tense silence of the other three. “That’s right!” he exclaimed, a wild, unsettling grin stretching across his face like a predator revealing its teeth. “It was you!” 

In a single moment, the facade of calm he’d adopted shattered completely, fury once more lighting in Conor's eyes as his lip curled in contempt. “You caught sight of her in the garden from the window in your room. You sprinted the entire way to your father’s chambers. You were just so excited to catch a thief,” he spat. 

“Well, guess what, Devin? You weren’t the only one that ran that day. I went the opposite direction; while you ran to your father, I ran to the gardens. But I was still too late," Conor muttered, his tone dripping with bitterness. "As if it ever really mattered. Even if I had gotten to her in time, there was nowhere she could have gone that the Earl wouldn’t have found her. She’d never have left without her mother and sister.

“The guards dragged her all the way to the town square,” He bit out, furious eyes never straying from Worthy’s. “We all followed them- Servants, cooks, slaves. We all watched as your father ordered her beaten until she no longer ‘posed a threat’,” he mocked, “to his estate.

“They beat her until she stopped moving, while her mother screamed for her from the crowd. I remember looking up at the platform where you stood proudly next to your father. I remember the look in your eyes, Devin, as you watched that girl be beaten to death. I remember that you looked drunk off the suffering you had caused. 

“Do you even remember her name?” Worthy could only gape at him. Conor snorted, shaking his head. “Of course not,” he spat. “Why would you? She wasn’t a person, she was a thief. Well, I remember her name: Aliana. I can’t forget it - it was the only coherent thing her mother screamed. She was twelve years old. Her little sister was called Isla; she was six. 

“I stayed behind when the other estate workers returned to their positions. I stayed behind while you and your father went back. I stayed because I refused to leave her side. I held her hand as she tried to breathe through lungs your father ordered crushed. And I will n-never-” For the first time, Conor’s voice wavered with an emotion other than hatred. He swallowed, taking a single deep breath before he continued, “I will never forget the sound of her mother’s screams as her firstborn daughter took her last breath.” 

Conor was breathing heavily, like he had just been running. He gave a small, raw laugh. “I hated you,” he muttered, then narrowed his eyes. “No, I still hate you- and by the gods, does that feel good to finally say! I hate that you are the reason I knew death before the war had even begun.” He threw his head back, muscles tense as he drew a deep breath. “I. Hate. You.” He said slowly, seemingly savoring the way the words felt on his tongue. 

A clenched jaw, fingers digging crescent moon cuts into palms. “You know what the worst part is?” He asked, tone slightly bemused as he got to his feet. Abeke tensed, ready to leap forward if he tried to attack the other boy. Conor only began pacing, though, running a hand through his messy, golden hair. “I just can’t seem to get rid of you!” He exclaimed. “Every time I think I’ve finally left you behind, you just show up again! It’s like God or the universe or whatever force makes the world go ‘round just won’t let me escape you!

“When I joined the Greencloaks, I thought I was free! But then we had to go back to Trunswick and you had us thrown in the Howling House.” Rollan grunted. “We escaped there! But then you showed up in Lord MacDonald’s manor, where you nearly cut my head off.” Here, Conor halted in his pacing, pulling his shirt down to expose the white scar along his collarbone where Worthy had once sunk an axe blade. “Then,” he continued, “you were finally thrown in a cell, and I thought I was in the clear! The war was over, the Devourer was finished, and we could all go home!

“What happens then?” He asked, his voice taking on a desperate, manic edge to it. Abeke had never been as unsettled by her best friend as she was right then. “I get possessed by a will-destroying parasite that slowly eats away at my humanity, directly attempt to kill her,” he waved at Meilin, who winced, “indirectly attempt to kill every sane person left on the planet, and try to take over the world! 

“You’d think - you’d think - that fate would finally give us a break, wouldn't you? But no!” He rounded on Worthy once more. “It’s not enough that a violent coup was staged against the Greencloaks. It’s not enough that all four of us are wanted criminals on every continent in the world.” He barked out a harsh laugh and spread his arms wide. “Because you’re still here! You’ve shown up in my life again, completely out of nowhere, and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it besides sit in silence and pretend that I don’t dream about burying a blade in your neck.” 

Worthy was staring up at him, his green eyes glistening with unshed tears. The weight of his despair hung in the air, making it hard for him to find his voice. Abeke could only watch on. 

“You have haunted me,” Conor uttered, his voice barely above a whisper, “for so many years. No matter what I do, you always seem to come back.” He stared dully into the flickering embers of the fire for a long moment. 

‘Is it over?’ Abeke wondered. Conor’s lips tightened into a firm line, and a steely chill flickered across his eyes. No, it wasn’t over. Yet, Abeke couldn’t help but notice that the cold energy emanating from him now felt distinct, more nuanced than the simmering fury he had long kept bottled up within himself. It was as if the raging tempest had transformed into an icy stillness, each wave of his frigid demeanor washing over her with a profound, unsettling clarity.

“I am done pretending,” he said, deliberate and slow. “We are allies- tentative allies, at best.” Conor took a single step forward, kicking his axe into the air and expertly catching the handle. His eyes never strayed from Worthy’s trembling form. 

“Conor,” Abeke spoke for the first time. “Don’t.” She didn’t like the way her voice had seemed to shrink into a whisper, barely able to fill the space around her. The boy only gazed at her for a moment, eyes steady, before looking back to Worthy. 

Uraza’s breath was warm against her skin as the big cat laid one massive paw on the hand clutching her hunting knife. Abeke looked down at her spirit animal. The leopard’s violet eyes were trained on the scene before them. Still, she made no move to intervene.

Abeke understood then. Conor wasn’t going to hurt the ex-Lord’s son. He only wanted to make a point. 

Conor stepped past her. The tip of his blade found its way under Worthy’s chin, tilting his lowered head up to meet his gaze. “We,” he said cooly, “are not friends. Do not keep acting as though we are. If we did not need every pair of hands that we could get to stand even a chance of making it through this, I would have buried this axe in your belly the moment you showed your face again.

“I am not the serving boy you had punished for daring to hum while he worked. I am not the naive little shepherd who was thrown headfirst into a war he knew nothing about.” The tall, Euran teenager stood with an unwavering kind of grace, squared shoulders exuding confidence as he firmly planted his feet. With a dignified tilt of his chin, still forcing Worthy to meet his eyes, he said, “I am Conor, son of Fenray. I am the summoner of Briggan the Wolf. I am a Hero of Erdas, a soldier, and a Greencloak. But I am not your friend.”

Abeke watched on in awe. She had never seen her friend so… Regal before. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought that Conor was royalty. The way he stood now, the way he spoke- He sounded like a true king. 

“Do you understand?” He demanded. Worthy hesitated, then nodded from his place at Conor’s feet. “Say it,” he said sharply. 

“I- I understand,” Worthy stammered. 

Conor evaluated him for another long moment before giving a single nod, withdrawing his blade from under Worthy’s chin, and turning on his heel. 

Before he was even a foot away, Worthy had gasped out a short, “Wait!”

Before Abeke could even think to move, Conor had spun back, blade fully pressed into the Redcloak’s neck. “Think carefully,” he intoned, “about what you are about to say.”

Worthy gulped, and his eyes flickered closed for a brief moment. “I’m sorry,” he rasped, forcing himself to meet the other’s steely blue eyes. “Conor, I am so, so sorry.” A sob tore itself free from his vocal cords. “Please,” he begged, “I’m s-sorry!”

Conor seemed to appraise the other boy for a minute, taking in the way tears traced tracks down his slightly freckled face and how his throat bobbed with each gasping breath he took. 

“I can’t forgive you,” he said. Worthy seemed to crumple into himself, the only thing keeping his body upright being the blade pressing against his skin. 

“Please,” he supplicated, hands clasped in front of his chest. “I’m s-so sorry!”

Conor stared cooly down at the other teen. “Not even a thousand ‘sorry’s’ will fix everything you have broken. It will not give that little girl her life back. It will not heal the scars you or your father have left on my home. It will not undo everything you have done to me.” In one smooth motion, Conor removed his axe blade from under Worthy’s jaw, revealing a thin trail of crimson in its absence. “I’m not interested in your apologies,” he stated. “I don’t want anything to do with you. I just want you to leave me alone.”

With that, he turned on his heel and stalked into the night, leaving nothing but the smoldering embers of the fire, the steady sound of Uraza’s breathing, and Worthy’s heart-wrenching sobs echoing into the encroaching darkness.